


I Won't Dance

by Polkat (aralias)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: April Showers 2015, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-17
Updated: 2004-08-17
Packaged: 2018-03-21 01:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3672678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/Polkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I won't dance, why should I? I won't dance, how could I?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Won't Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading old fic for April Showers 2015. All spelling/grammar errors (and my weird paragraphing) left as originally posted. These fics were never actually posted under the name 'Polkat' but I thought I'd group all my HP stuff together as the name change denotes a change in platform (FF.NET to LJ) rather than a change in the way I was writing.
> 
> Interestingly I expect this was written just after the film came out - Copperbadge made sure we all knew Remus was playing big band music. So, here he likes Sinatra.

The reception party has been underway for two hours now and Remus has spent most of this time hiding. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see his friends for the short time they’re able to be together before going back to the shams their lives have become, because he does. He wants to watch James falling over his feet as he tries to dance with Lily; he wants to watch Peter put his hand in a bowl of prawns whilst trying to chat up Melissa Harker or whoever he has his eye on today; he wants to see Dumbledore wearing a proper smile for the first time in almost a year, laughing at something McGonagall’s just told him, but he knows that if he appears Sirius, energetic and more than a little drunk, will bound over to him and drag him into something he doesn’t think he can cope with today after at least eight glasses of champagne.   
  
And so he has made his token appearance, ruffled James’ hair, told Lily how astonishingly beautiful she looks and disappeared into the Potters’ house to read quietly until the alcohol works its way out of his system.   
  
He is having trouble concentrating on the words though; the music, magically amplified, wafts lazily through the thin walls and disturbs him with images of dark hair and laughter and a smile that makes him feel like he’s been asked to give a talk about werewolves to the Minister for Magic.   
  
Frustrated, Remus puts down the book – it does not deserve his half attention – and paces vaguely round the room examining its contents as if he has not been here every day for the last week. He smiles and picks up a picture of the four of them in which, if he remembers correctly, James and Sirius were yelling rude words at the camera after being informed it was a sort of muggle tradition, under the impression it was amusing. Peter looks slightly nervous but is giggling anyway and the photographic image of Remus is smiling as if it, at least, does not find their antics funny in the least – McGonagall was about three feet away and about to clap them all in detention – but Remus knows that in any moment the image will give in and start laughing without restraint, because that’s what it always does and, after all, he was there, laughing at them three years ago, before it became a photograph.   
  
He puts it down and a voice behind him says: “You’re missing the party, you know.”  
Remus turns and finds that, as expected, Sirius Black is leaning indolently against the door frame, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his jacket discarded in the easy July heat and his tie lost somewhere, possibly forever, which is shame, Remus thinks distractedly, because he has always rather liked that tie.   
  
“I was tired,” he says, because it seems like a reasonable excuse and not because he feels tired, though he does.   
“You’re always tired,” Sirius reminds him, slipping back into an inappropriate smile.  
“I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”  
Sirius laughs and pushes himself into a roughly vertical position away from the doorway. “You’re disturbing your friends by skulking inside the house during a party. Moody wants to talk to you about some charm with a funny name-”  
“The Fidelius Charm,” Remus supplies, wondering how long it will take to go outside and say “I’m terribly sorry, Moody, but I’ve just come down with the most awful headache so I’ll speak to you about it later. Bye.”  
Too long, probably.  
“That’s the one," Sirius continues blithely. "Anyway, McGonagall has asked me twice if you’re even here at all, Peter’s off snogging some girl which is worth watching, and I want you to dance.”  
  
“Ah no... I don’t dance,” Remus says, which is lie, but a safe lie; the truth ‘I  _won’t_  dance… not with you’ hovers unspoken behind his lips.  
“Liar,” Sirius returns, grinning broadly as if he can read Remus’ thoughts which is entirely possible, Remus decides with panic bourn by alcohol, as he is certainly bright enough to have mastered legilimency. “I’ve seen you dance after you’ve been drinking… You’re good.”  
“I haven’t been drinking,” Remus returns, obstinately, ignoring the champagne inside him.  
“Well,” Sirius cocks an eyebrow. “We’ll just have to get you some more alcohol then, won’t we? James has proved a most generous host and there’s champagne everywhere and don’t say you don’t like champagne because you do and you lie appallingly.”  
“I have to work tomorrow,” Remus argues weakly, but he knows it’s over and so does Sirius who grabs his hand and pulls him happily out into the garden with a “Come on, Moony!” where the sounds of the party overwhelm him and Sirius pushes another glass of distracted intoxication into his hand.   
  
“Lupin!” Moody bellows over the crowd. “There you are.”  
“Ignore him,” Sirius instructs, waving gaily to the old auror who is safely barricaded behind a multitude of dancing couples. “Drink up.”   
Deciding to get this ordeal over with as quickly, Remus downs the sparkling liquid and abandons it shakily on the table. “OK, now what?”  
  
The song changes to something that Remus recognises with a pang that can’t decide whether it’s pleased or horrified. Sirius’ grin has grown wicked.  
“I hate you,” Remus informs him as Frank Sinatra’s voice floats over the crowds. “Is this my record or did you buy one of your own?”  
“Stole it from the pile under your jumpers last week,” Sirius acknowledges, dragging him onto the dance floor. “I thought it was appropriate.”  
Yes, it is, Remus thinks, smiling because it’s wonderful and painful and hilariously funny and did Sirius actually listen to the lyrics or just read the title on one of Remus’ records think it would be funny to force him into dancing?  
  
Probably the latter, Remus decides, smiling and relaxing into the easy beat and the atmosphere. After all, when has Sirius Black ever really thought anything through properly?   
  
Even so, as the song continues and Sirius’ eyes sparkle with suppressed laughter, he knows that this is probably a mistake.   
  
_Definitely_  a mistake, his brain supplies stubbornly through the alcohol.  
  
Remus laughs and decides to ignore it.


End file.
